Bill and Frank
by mgowriter
Summary: A glimpse into the moments of their lives...how they meet, how they live and love, and how their world falls apart.
1. Chapter 1

**mgowriter's note**: I never thought my first TLOU story would be about Bill and Frank, but after multiple play throughs, Bill has become one of my favorite characters. Kudos to W. Earl Brown for his amazing voice acting and MoCap work.

* * *

1.

Bill froze behind the metal cabinet that he had dragged into the street just moments ago. Either his ears were playing tricks on him, or a clicker had growled somewhere behind him. Seconds passed without another sound. White puffs formed around his breath in the cold, winter air.

He scanned the deserted road again, listening for any signs of the infected. Thick, heavy snowflakes continued to fall from the gray, sunless sky. The four-inch layer of powder that had accumulated overnight made some of the older buildings moan as they settled in against the wind.

After a full minute, he shook his head and grabbed onto the metal cabinet again. "You're hearin' things that ain't there, Bill," he muttered to himself. "Keep this up and you can assign yourself one of these buildings as a personal loony bin."

Before he could give the cabinet another push, he heard the splash of a glass bottle crumbling into pieces against a wall, and this time, the definite scream of a runner.

Bill automatically ducked into a crouching position as he armed himself with his handgun.

"Goddammit," he swore. He had just cleared out the street a week ago. If not for the damn storm, he could've had the area secured last night.

He didn't have to wait long. Footsteps crunched on the snow at a rapid pace until a figure burst out of the alleyway, running at full speed. Bill's pistol was trained on him in less than a second, and the trigger was halfway depressed when the man yelled out.

"Help!" he cried aloud. "Help me!"

Bill looked up from his aim. It was impossible for the man to see him where he crouched. That meant only one thing. The guy was an idiot. Making that much noise was going to get a lot more infected on his ass than the two runners and single clicker that were following close behind.

Bill considered his options. He could let the infected finish the job. Considering the way the guy was hollering and yelling, he probably deserved it. He could kill the infected, but the sound of the gunshots would bring more. Either way, he was going to have to clear this block out all over again.

Before he made up his mind, he saw the man take a wild turn and head straight for the open doorway of one of the buildings close to where he crouched. The sign above read, "Angie's Antiques."

"Shit," Bill said aloud as he realized what was about to happen. The man sprinted through the door, narrowly missing a thin wire that connected to two small explosives on either side of the frame. Seconds later, the first runner that followed tripped on the wire, and the ground shook with the explosion. The other runner was engulfed in the same blast, and the clicker, lured by the noise, fell easily into the flames.

Bill circled around until he reached the back entryway of the building. Furniture littered the interior, making it hard to see inside. He swore again, this time in silence.

When he reached the storefront, a set of chairs near the entrance were already on fire. He inched closer until a cough nearby caught his attention. Bill turned quickly to train his gun on the stranger, who immediately raised his hands in surrender.

"Wait," the man said in panic. A long rivulet of blood trailed downward from a piece of glass that obtruded from his left arm. "Please, don't shoot."

"Who the hell are you, and what the fuck are you doing in this town?" Bill spat out his words.

"I'm…I was with a group," the man stammered. "We got overrun. I was just trying to get away. Please, don't shoot."

"Do you have any fucking idea how many of those things heard that explosion? The whole goddamn town of infected is gonna be on us."

"Please," the other man said. "I'm sorry. I didn't have a choice. I…I'm Frank."

"What?"

"My name. It's Frank."

As if on cue, the screams of multiple runners pierced the air. They were just a few blocks away.

Bill cursed under his breath. "Get up."

"What?"

"If you wanna live, follow me." Bill began to make his way to the rear of the building. "If not, stay here."

. . .

The two-story building that housed Sammy's Diner was only five blocks away, but because of the barricades and fences Bill had set up, the two men covered twice the distance to reach their destination.

"I think we lost'em," Bill said as he closed the door and dragged a bookshelf to block it.

"That was close," Frank breathed in relief. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet," said Bill. "You might be the luckiest son-of-a-bitch alive, missing that tripwire, but I haven't fully convinced myself to keep from shooting you."

He studied the stranger as he said this. Frank was younger than himself, somewhere in his late thirties. He was slightly taller than average, and naturally on the thin side. Lack of food had left a considerable amount of room around his jeans and the solitary sweatshirt that hung on his skinny frame. He was shivering against the cold. His sleeve, now saturated with blood, began to drip onto the floor.

"What the hell happened to you?" Bill asked.

"Our group got overrun just outside of town," Frank replied in a slight stutter, looking around at their surroundings. The diner comprised of a long, rectangular bar that spanned the length of the room and curved inward at one end. A row of red, leather booths stood against the opposite wall, next to windows that had been carefully boarded up. Two fire pits stood on either end of the room, one jerry-rigged to resemble a small, brick stove and the other one free-standing to provide warmth. It was a sparse setup, but secure enough that he didn't have to worry about the infected getting in.

Frank tried to rub his hands together for warmth but winced as the left arm was disturbed. He looked down at the blood that seeped slowly from the wound.

"We were trying to get to Boston," he said with heaviness in his voice. "I was the only one to make it out, but I lost everything. All my food and supplies."

"You ain't exactly dressed for winter," Bill observed.

"A runner grabbed my jacket. He was about an inch away from sinking his teeth into me. Better the jacket than me, I guess."

Bill was silent as he considered Frank's story. The other man crossed his good arm across his body and continued to tremble. The blood from his arm made a small, neat puddle of red on the concrete floor.

"Wait here," he finally said. "There's wood and a couple o' matches. I suggest you get a fire started if you don't intend on catchin' hypothermia."

When he returned from the living quarters upstairs, he carried a bottle of alcohol, a few clean strips of cloth cut from a t-shirt, some duct tape, and a blanket. He dug inside one of the cabinets behind the bar for a can of food.

Frank followed him with a hopeful gaze as he lined up the items along the bar top.

"You can stay the night but you're gone by tomorrow morning." He looked at Frank to make sure the message got through. "Otherwise I am gonna shoot you myself."

"Thank you," Frank said with genuine gratitude.

Bill took one last look at the man, shook his head, and headed back upstairs.


	2. Chapter 2

2.

Bill woke with a start.

He sat upright on the mattress, aware that something was wrong but unable to pinpoint the source of the problem.

Out of habit, he grabbed the gas mask by his gear. The mask was half way secured when he realized the odor that filtered in from underneath the barricaded door was the smell of cooking food.

Bill picked up his shotgun and quietly moved the dresser away from the door. He frowned as a rich, savory aroma reached his nose.

After silently making his way down the stairs, he was greeted with the sight of Frank holding a pan over the flames in the brick stove.

"What the hell are you doin'?" Bill demanded from behind the barrel of the shotgun.

Frank jumped in surprise, but managed to hold onto the pan. "I'm…making breakfast."

"You've gotta be fucking kidding me. What part of 'gone by morning' was hard to understand?"

"I wanted to do something to show my thanks, for saving my life yesterday." Frank edged cautiously toward the plate on the nearest table, and transferred the hot food onto it. "I was in my second year of cooking school when the infection broke out. Try it," he pointed to the plate. "It's good."

Bill didn't move. The gun remained pointed at Frank's chest.

The other man sighed. "You have a hard time trusting people, don't you?" He picked up a fork and placed a chunk of meat into his mouth. "See? Not poisoned."

In the end, the undeniably delicious smell of the dish and the growling of his stomach convinced him to sit. Bill looked down at the plate in front of him. He picked up the fork and stabbed at the meat.

It tasted heavenly; tender, juicy, and mixed with a blend of spices that lingered in his mouth long afterwards.

"What is this?" he asked.

"Pan seared steak, roasted potatoes, and baby carrots caramelized with a balsamic glaze," Frank said with pride. "Not bad from a can, right?"

Bill followed his gaze to an empty can of Dinty Moore beef stew near the stove.

"This came from that can?" he said in surprise.

"Plus some spices I found back in the kitchen," said Frank. He took a seat across from Bill, looking him in the eye. "I'm a good cook."

Bill set down his fork, mid-bite. "No. No way. Do I look like a damn fool to you? I don't need a good cook."

"Okay, then I'm a good shot. I can help you clear out the infected from the block that was overrun yesterday."

"I don't need help clearing the infected, and I sure as hell don't need another fucking liability."

Frank leaned in closer. "You're building defenses around the whole town. That's smart, to funnel the infected into controlled areas, but it's a two-man job moving all that metal and barbed wire. We can get it done faster. You kick me out and you might as well kill me with that shotgun. There's nothing out there. No food, no shelter. Give me a chance here. I'll stay out of your way and I'll earn my keep."

Bill stared into the other man's dark brown eyes. They wore a mixture of fear and determined bravado, but they were telling the truth. The winter had been especially bad, following a dismal drought the previous summer. He had encountered more than the usual share of frozen corpses on his monthly trips to Boston. Their emaciated bodies seemed barely able to hold up their haggard faces forever etched with hunger. Frank wouldn't survive a week in the cold.

Bill picked up the fork and chewed slowly, in silence. He frowned, unwilling to believe he was entertaining the thought. Yet there he was, with pan seared steak in his mouth, some fancy vegetables in his stomach, and a serious chance of getting killed in the middle of the night by the stranger sitting across from him. He looked up to see Frank still staring into his eyes, searching for the answer he needed to hear.

Bill placed the fork down for the final time. He pushed the plate aside and sighed.

"You're gonna need a pair of work gloves and a decent jacket."

Frank opened his mouth to speak.

"And you got exactly one week to impress me," Bill continued. "After that, if I don't see this working out for any reason, you're gone. For good. Got it?"

"You won't regret it," the other man said with a genuine smile.

Bill's scowl was less enthusiastic. "I doubt that very much."


	3. Chapter 3

3.

Bill adjusted the heavy bag of supplies across his shoulder. He felt a familiar weariness creep into his body. The fifteen-mile journey back from Boston had taken more than its usual toll. He was cold, hungry, and ready to sleep the night in his own bed.

He stepped onto main road that led into the center of town. Darkness had settled in quickly after the sunset, and he hurried past the familiar outlines of cars that littered the street. The night was quiet except for the crunching of his boots on the new layer of fallen snow.

He rounded the corner, but froze before he took another step. Bill blinked in surprise, momentarily convinced that he was witnessing a mirage. A flood of light flickered behind the wooden boards that covered the windows of the diner. He had never seen the place so brightly lit before. The flames from within propelled him into a run.

. . .

"Frank?" Bill yelled as he pushed open the door. He looked around wildly. Dozens of candles decorated the interior of the diner. They flickered with his movement, but none were in danger of setting the place on fire. He breathed an audible sigh of relief.

"Frank?" he tried again.

"Coming!" Frank replied from the kitchen. He emerged with a silver tray in hand. "You're back early."

"I didn't want to get stuck in the…what the hell is going on here?" Bill finally asked, looking around the room. "The place looked like it was on fire from outside. You fixin' to talk to some dead relatives?"

Frank laughed. "Afraid not, but good guess."

"And what the hell are you wearin'?" Bill asked.

Frank looked down at the repeating pattern of white palm trees against his crimson red shirt. "It's Hawaiian. You don't like it?"

Bill raised his eyebrows. "I go to Boston for three days and you've completely lost your marbles."

"We're having a party," said Frank, as if the explanation was obvious.

"Oh good," said Bill. "And here I thought you were burnin' down every candle we own for some unjustified reason."

"Appetizer?" Frank asked, offering him the tray that contained two rows of saltine crackers topped with canned salmon.

Bill frowned at the other man, but reached for a cracker.

"Smoked salmon crostini," said Frank. "You like them?"

Despite his exhaustion, Bill couldn't help the upward twitch at the corner of his lips. He certainly hadn't expected coming home to this tonight.

"So what's the occasion?" he asked, playing along.

"Our one year anniversary."

Bill almost choked on the cracker. "Come again?"

"One year, well, roughly in the same month at least, since you saved my sorry ass from being eaten alive. I'd say that's a good call for celebration, wouldn't you?"

"Huh. One year." He paused. "It doesn't seem like it."

"I'll take that as a compliment," said Frank. "Wait here. You won't believe what I found inside the same suitcase this shirt was in."

Bill shrugged off the last of his gear and took a seat on one of the barstools. The booths along the wall had been transformed by Frank's candlelight vigil. Along with the fire pits at both ends of the room, it was downright toasty in the diner.

His eyes lit up when Frank returned with a bottle and two old fashioned glasses.

"Is that what I think it is?"

Frank turned the bottle, smiling mischievously as he presented the label. _Johnnie Walker Gold_.

Bill whistled in appreciation. "Where'd you find that?"

"Third floor, at the bottom of a closet in 315."

"Next to that critter nest I cleaned out last month?" Bill asked.

"Who knew there was a pot of gold underneath all that rat shit, huh?"

Bill laughed at the image. He felt the tiredness leave his body. "Well don't just stand there. Let's get her open."

Frank set the glassware down and poured a healthy serving into each. He raised his glass in a toast. "To being alive."

Bill returned the salute. "Better than the alternative."

"And to good friends," said Frank, looking Bill in the eyes. "Hard to come by, but worth everything in the end."

Bill hesitated, before echoing the toast. "To good friends."

The two men downed their drinks and grinned at each other.

"That was the best fuckin' thing I've tasted in a decade," said Bill.

"Me too," Frank agreed.

They both looked at the bottle.

"We should probably save it," said Frank. "You know, have a little at a time."

Bill considered the proposition, before placing his glass down on the table. "Fuck it. It's a party, right?"

"Okay," Frank conceded, "but before we get too carried away, I have something I want to give you."

Bill was already pouring the next round. He looked up at Frank. "What, like a…present?"

"Exactly," said Frank. He disappeared into the adjacent room and emerged with an item wrapped in thick layers of cloth.

Bill gave him a puzzled look. He lifted the heavy object onto the bar top and began to unravel the multiple layers.

"It's my old machete," he finally said, slightly dumbfounded.

"Wait a minute—" Bill picked up the weapon and studied it in the light. "The blade's different." He ran a finger along the edge of the knife, but instinctively pulled it back.

"Son of a—" the sharp pain of sliced skin took him by surprise as blood started to ooze from the wound. "Jesus this thing's sharp."

"Let me see," Frank said with concern. The cut was surprisingly deep; a testament to the sharpness of the blade. He grabbed the nearest towel and wrapped it firmly around Bill's thumb.

"That thing was rusted to hell and duller than a block of wood," said Bill. "You sharpened it?"

Frank nodded, concentrating on the blood that was seeping through the thin towel.

"Must've taken you a long time." Bill sounded impressed.

"I found it when you left a couple of days ago," Frank replied. "Didn't think I'd have it ready in time, but here it is. And hold still," he added, applying more pressure to the wound.

"I can take care of it myself…" Bill's voice trailed off as he watched the other man's movements.

Frank had already started to wrap a piece of electrical tape across the thumb, lining up the edges of the cut to help the wound close properly. His hands were surprisingly gentle as he worked on the wound. Bill felt their warmth against his calloused skin, and relaxed into their hold.

After a final examination of the area, Frank placed Bill's hand carefully down on the bar top. "There," he said softly. "That should hold it in place. I don't think it'll need stitches."

Bill blinked as they severed contact. He automatically reached toward Frank, but caught himself in the act. Instead, he rubbed at the stubble on his cheeks and cleared his throat. "Thanks, I…"

"Don't mention it," said Frank. "Now, where were we with the scotch?"


	4. Chapter 4

4.

Bill inhaled sharply at the unexpected interruption to his alcohol-laden sleep. His hand automatically closed around the metal handle of the .45 caliber pistol that lay at his side. A second later, his eyes opened to a dark figure hovering near the edge of his bed.

"Shhh," a familiar voice shushed. "It's just me."

Bill felt the fingers of the intruder wrap around his own and gently push the pistol out of his grasp.

"Frank?" he said as his squinted toward the shadow. "What are you doing?"

"Something I've wanted to do for a long time," said Frank with a discernible slur in his voice. He continued to advance onto the mattress until they were just inches apart.

Moonlight shone through the window, strong enough for Bill to make out the other man's features. Frank's eyes were fixed on his own, unmoving, searching.

Bill felt his heartbeat quicken. His temples pounded from the beginnings of a hangover. He could to smell the strong scent of liquor on Frank's body. An image of the empty bottle of Johnnie Walker flashed in his mind. Had they really finished the entire bottle by themselves?

"Look," he said, aware of the growing perspiration in his hands. "We've both had a lot to drink. In fact, that scotch pretty much kicked my ass. We should call it a night and sleep this off…"  
Frank shook his head, still staring into Bill's eyes. "No more excuses. That's why they call it liquid courage, right?"

Bill swallowed what little saliva was left in his mouth. He suddenly felt parched. "Frank, I don't know what you think you're doin', but you're goddamned as hell going to regret it in the mor—"

He was so taken aback at the kiss that he forgot to breathe. Frank's lips were equally soft and rough, moist and warm next to his own, yet full of authority and hunger. They lingered for a second before fully pressing in. Somehow, it was the perfect combination of touch.

Frank pushed forward with surprising strength until he was on top of Bill. Their breaths puffed out in soft clouds, warm against the cold air. He hesitated at Bill's jacket, then slipped the zipper down enough to reach inside. Bill's hand tightened around Frank's in hesitation, but slowly gave way as the other man explored his body. Each part that Frank touched tingled to life, and the electricity spread in waves throughout his body.

Bill forced himself to take a breath. He studied the dark brown eyes that never left his own. They held a vulnerability that Frank had never let himself show before. After a moment of stillness, he leaned in to return the kiss.

When they finally separated, it was Bill who was left wanting more. For the first time in his life, he was speechless.

"I've always wondered what that felt like," slurred Frank, with a wide, oblivious grin.

It took a moment for Bill to find his voice.

"What's that?" he asked.

"Your beard. It's not as prickly as it looks."  
"Oh," Bill replied. He licked his lips. He could still taste the other man.

Frank rolled to the side and pressed their bodies close together. "I'm sleeping here tonight," he said, neither a question nor a request.

"Okay," said Bill.

Frank searched the darkness until he touched the other man's arm, and wrapped it carefully over his own.

"Goodnight, Bill."

He pulled up the blanket to cover them both. His breathing slipped into an even cadence as he stumbled into sleep.

Bill felt the soft rise and fall of the other man's chest underneath his arm. Their man-made cocoon radiated a warmth that made him equally drowsy. He lowered his head next to Frank's, and tightened his hold.

"Goodnight, Frank."


	5. Chapter 5

5.

"Your move."

Frank snapped his head up at the sound of Bill's voice.

"What?"

"Your move," Bill repeated, motioning to the chess board between them. "You've been staring at it for the last five minutes. Everything okay?"

"Sorry," said Frank. He glanced down at his remaining rook, and pushed it forward two spaces.

Bill leaned back into the tall, leather seat that comprised one side of the booth they both occupied. "Now I know something's wrong, 'cause you just set yourself up for checkmate in two moves."

Frank frowned as he studied the chess board again, this time with a more critical eye.

"You're right," he conceded. "You win."

"You gonna tell me what's botherin' you or do I have to drag it outta you?" said Bill.

"Okay, fair enough." Frank opened his mouth to speak, but changed his mind and sighed instead.

"Go on, spit it out."

"You're not going to like it."

Bill chuckled to himself. "Yeah, I got that already. But I ain't gonna like watchin' you mope around all day, either. Now what is it?"

"Okay." Frank paused. "There's no easy way to say it, so I'm just going to say it. I think we should go check out the military truck that crashed into the school."

Bill shook his head as he stood from the booth. "We've been over this."

"I know," said Frank. "But there has to be supplies on that truck. No one's come looking for it in two weeks. Hell, the truck itself might still work. We could get out of here—"

"And go where?" said Bill. "The whole fucking country is infected. People have it a lot worse elsewhere than we have it here."  
"We don't know that," said Frank, his anger building.

"You wanna go live with other people? Pretend to be in a city with rules and laws and civilization? No problem. Go to Boston. See how they're runnin' the place. Me? No, thank you. I'd rather stay in this goddamn town than starve like a rat inside a cage in that quarantine zone."

Frank stood and stared at Bill. Hurt flashed through his eyes. "Forget it. I knew what you were going to say anyway. I was stupid to bring it up."

Bill softened at the other man's words. "I didn't mean—"

"I said forget it. It's done." Frank turned to leave. "I'm checking the traps on the north side today. I'll be home for dinner."

. . .

Bill stopped his pacing to peer through the small gaps between the boards that covered the windows of Sammy's diner. The late spring sun was almost gone from the horizon, yet there was still no sign of Frank.

They had one rule that was never broken—never stay out alone after sunset. Frank knew the rule. He was the one who came up with the goddamn rule.

Bill walked the perimeter of the diner one more time before making up his mind. He shouldered his well-worn backpack, checked the batteries in his flashlight, and headed out into the dusk.

. . .

Two hours of searching the north side of town proved to be a great exercise in frustration. There was no sign of Frank, or any sign that the traps had been checked. Some of them still had debris from the last rainstorm scattered precariously close to the trigger points.

"Goddammit, Frank," Bill said as he looked up into the dark clouds that hung in the night sky. He could smell the humidity in the air and feel the moisture rise around him. It was going to pour.

He scanned the surrounding area one more time, swore again, and turned to head back home. He walked just a few feet before a torrent of rain began to fall from the sky.

. . .

Bill squinted through the heavy downpour. After holding his breath for what seemed like a minute, he finally exhaled at the faint glow of light coming from inside the diner. Relief and anger flooded him at the same time. He settled on deciding he would strangle the man inside. What the hell had Frank been thinking?

Bill crashed through the door unceremoniously. As predicted, Frank was sitting by the fire. His anger surged as he walked toward the fire pit, dripping water with every step. He was fully intent on giving Frank an earful when he noticed the uncontrollable shaking from the other man.

Frank was also soaked from head to toe, but hadn't bothered to get out of his clothes. His hair was matted to his face, and his teeth chattered against each other despite his efforts to warm up. A large cut sliced through his left forearm, still oozing blood. Bits of dirt and mud stuck to the clothing and skin on his left side.

"What happened?" Bill settled on asking.

"I ran into some infected."

Frank continued to stare into the fire, shivering with each breath. He offered nothing more.

"I was looking for you on the north side."

"Like I said, I ran into some infected."

Bill sighed. "You gonna elaborate on that?"

Frank shrugged his shoulders. "It was no big deal. I didn't get bit, if that's what you're worried about."

"No big deal?" Bill repeated. "That's pretty a nasty cut you got there."

Frank flinched as Bill examined the wound. "It's fine," he said, retracting his arm.

"It's not fine," said Bill. He tried to look at the arm again, but Frank twisted out of his grasp.

"I said it's fucking fine."

Bill held his hands up. "Okay. It's fine. At least let me get you cleaned up. You look like you've been muddin' around on a pig farm."

Frank rose from his seat. "I'm going to bed," he said briskly. "I'll see you in the morning."

He was half way up the stairs before Bill could think of anything to say.

"At least change into some dry clothes," he yelled after Frank. "I'm ain't gonna have any sympathy when you catch pneumonia."

His remark was met with silence. Bill frowned to himself. There was something Frank wasn't telling him. He looked around the room, but there was no evidence of what Frank had been up to. Eventually, the chill from his own wet clothes prompted him to move. He took off his jacket, hung it by the fire, and followed Frank's wet footsteps up the stairs.


	6. Chapter 6

6.

"Knock knock," a female voice sounded from behind him.

"Jesus!" Bill exclaimed as he jumped from behind the workbench. He turned to stare at the intruder. "How the hell did you get in?"

Tess smiled at him. "Good to see you too, Bill. I knew I could expect a warm welcome." She walked toward the workbench and whistled in appreciation at the contraption that hung overhead. "What are you building?"

Bill followed her gaze to the Frigidaire refrigerator that was suspended in mid-air at the opposite end of the warehouse. The long piece of rope attached to it snaked through the ceiling rafters and ended underneath a heavy cement block near where he stood.

"A trap," he replied shortly. "Too many goddamn infected gettin' in lately. I wouldn't walk in that general area if I were you," he added, nodding toward a blue door that led into the adjacent building.

"You're getting pretty creative with these," said Tess, still staring at the setup. "A lot of work for a trap, though. Protecting a secret up in that castle of yours?" She looked back in the direction of Sammy's diner.

"To what do I owe this surprise?" Bill asked, ignoring her question.

Tess turned to face him. "I can't visit a friend once in a while?"

Bill glared at her from behind his magnification glasses.

"Okay, here's the deal," said Tess, skipping the rest of the formalities. "I need some explosives, C-4 to be exact."

"You're kidding," Bill said in disbelief.

"Can't say that I am," said Tess, leaning herself against the wooden table.

"What makes you think I have a bunch of C-4 just lying around?"

"You're using something awfully strong for those traps you've got all over town, and I know you save the good stuff for yourself, Bill. Anyway, I'm willing to trade for them. I brought you some things you won't be able to resist."

Bill arched his eyebrows. "Big words, but you've got my attention."

Tess placed her pack on the table. She reached in and pulled out two silver pistols, along with a pair of extra magazines.

"That it?" Bill looked at the guns with little enthusiasm.

"Hold your horses," she said, digging for something else inside the pack. After a few seconds, she looked up in triumph. Tess held up two identical cylindrical suppressors and attached one of them onto the closest gun.

"Ever get tired of sneaking around, shooting arrows? This'll change your life, Bill."

Bill examined the suppressors. They were the real thing, and in great condition; a rare item even for him to find. He folded his arms.

"How much C-4 are we talkin'?"

"Ten pounds."

Bill laughed out loud. "That's funny, Tess. I never took you to be a comedian."

"Five pounds at the very least," Tess countered, anticipating his answer.

His laughter subdued into a look of sobriety. "Alright, I'll play. Say I had something close to what you're asking. There's no way in hell I'm gonna give it up for a couple of rusty lookin' silenced handguns."

Tess smiled. "I thought you might say that." She reached into her backpack again and to his surprise, pulled out an assault rifle. She clicked the folding stock of the gun into place and handed it to Bill. "A 7.62x39 caliber, semi-automatic AK47, lightweight polymer folding stock, built-in sight adaptor, and all around badass looking gun. Comes with five mags of forty-five rounds each. Easy to carry, easy to maintain. Satisfaction guaranteed."

Bill examined the rifle in his hands closely. It was a beauty. An all-black AK47 in excellent condition with enough fire power to stop anyone dead in their tracks, infected or human.

"This is serious," he finally said as he placed the gun on the table. "You sure you're ready to part with something like this?"

"Desperate needs, desperate times," Tess replied.

"What are you and Joel plannin' to do with all that C-4?

"I'm afraid I can't divulge. Our client is big on secrets."

Bill frowned at her words. "You're working with the Fireflies?"

Tess' smile faltered. Her features darkened at the mention of the militia group. "It's a one-time deal. A win-win, as Marlene likes to say."

"And you believe that?"

"You worried we can't handle ourselves?"

Bill grunted in disapproval. "I'm worried about my trading route. If you guys get your heads blown off, it'll take time to find a new guy that's not a complete idiot."

Tess' expression eased into a grin. "Why Bill, I think that's the sweetest thing you've ever said to me. So…we have a deal?"

Bill looked down at weapons on the table. It was a proposition he couldn't pass up.

"We have a deal," he replied. "But for the record, don't say I didn't warn you about the damn Fireflies."


	7. Chapter 7

7.

"What was that?" Frank asked as he heard a loud creak in front of him. His fingers tensed around Bill's arm

"A bunch of clickers," Bill replied with a smile the other man couldn't see.

Frank held his breath for a second before realizing the other man was joking. Bill's smile turned into a frown as he felt Frank's fist connect with his upper arm.

"Ow."

"Not funny," said Frank as he adjusted the blindfold around his eyes. "I don't know how I let you talk me into this in the first place."

"We're here," said Bill as they stopped at the bottom of the concrete steps. He untied the blindfold in eager anticipation.

Frank blinked a couple of times to adjust his eyes. The dim overhead lighting illuminated the center of the rectangular room. He found himself at the far end of a large, barren space surrounded by concrete walls. A couple of bookcases occupied the area near the entrance, while a wooden table stood underneath the light.

He peeked into the closest alcove that branched off from the main room. Metal shelves lined the walls, full of guns and ammunition. The next alcove was filled with similar shelving, and many of the tools they owned.

"What is this?" he asked, but quickly realized the answer to his own question. "Oh my God, it's the basement of the church."

Bill nodded.

"How did you…there was so much junk here."

"It took a while to clean up."

"The bodies…what did you do with them?"

"Burned them," Bill replied. "Had to let place air out a good two weeks before the smell started goin' away."

"Why is all of our stuff here?" Frank asked.

Bill grinned. "I thought you might like a change of scenery."

"You mean living…here?"

Bill shook his head. He pointed toward the ceiling. "The real surprise is upstairs. C'mon, follow me."

. . .

Frank's first glimpse of the main floor of the church took his breath away. The chapel, with its high, arched ceiling and stained-glass windows, was flooded in a brilliant display of light. Swatches of yellow, orange, peach and pink reflected the sun's rays and swelled upward in a vibrant glow that filled the room.

Frank approached the pulpit at the front of the chapel. Along both sides of the room, wooden pews were uprooted in front of the windows to prevent the infected from entering. A small cooking area was offset to the right wall, complete with a stove and large pot.

Light entering the circular window above the large cross beamed its rays onto the floor. As he walked into the incandescent spotlight, the warmth of the setting sun embraced his skin. He closed his eyes and smiled. It was perfect.

"There's one more thing I want you to see," said Bill, who led him toward a doorway to the right of the pulpit.

Frank stepped into the room. His eyes squinted from the intensified beams of light. The west wall had been replaced almost entirely by the same stained glass as the chapel, and it took full advantage of the sunset. The furniture in the room, a small table and two mattresses separated by a low bookshelf, were bathed in new colors of the rainbow, adding purples and violets to the mix.

"I…" Frank was momentarily speechless. "Bill, it's beautiful. I feel like I'm in a fucking fairytale. Things like this…they just don't exist anymore."

"I know," said Bill. He was staring at the window in equal amazement. "We can make it here."

Frank turned to meet his eyes.

"We can stay here and make a life, a good life," Bill continued. "There's nothing out there that we can't find here."

Frank considered his words. A bird flew by outside, catching his eye. The shadows it created made the light dance to life in the room. He looked around at their new home, and smiled. In that moment, anything seemed possible.

"I don't know if I like _everything_ that I see," he said with a teasing grin. "I mean, everything's perfect, except…I don't think my bed is going to get any use with yours so far away."

Bill wasn't one to easily blush, but his cheeks suddenly felt warm.

Frank grinned at his discomfort and pulled him in with one arm. "I guess we'll have to try these out to see which one is more comfortable." He let go and began to unbutton his shirt. "Well, cowboy, what're you waiting for?"


	8. Chapter 8

8.

Frank bunched up a t-shirt to his mouth and for what seemed like the hundredth time that day, coughed into the cloth. His throat was raw; his chest on fire. He looked down at the shirt, surprised there wasn't a trail of blood left behind. The force of the hacking felt strong enough to rip apart the tiny lung bronchioles inside his lungs that struggled to expand with each breath.

He lay back down onto the bed, giving in to the exhaustion. The past two days had taken everything out of him. Sleep was his only solace.

. . .

Frank woke to a pleasant, cooling sensation on his forehead. He relaxed into the touch with a sigh of content. When he opened his eyes, two light-brown orbs of concern stared back into them.

"Fever hasn't gone down," said Bill, extracting his hand. "How're you feeling?"

"Like I'm being repeatedly run over by an army of trucks," he rasped, barely able to recognize his own voice.

Bill frowned at his words. "I brought you some soup, if you can stomach it."

Frank nodded and with some help, sat up in bed. The rich aroma of the broth reminded his stomach that he hadn't eaten anything substantial in days.

He sipped a small spoonful from the bowl, and smiled up at Bill. "Tastes just like mom's chicken noodle."

"Don't get too excited," said Bill. "It's from the can."

"Yeah but when you haven't eaten—" he didn't get to finish the sentence as a new round of coughing almost knocked the bowl out of his hands.

"Easy there," said Bill, placing the bowl to the side. "Too salty?"

Frank shook his head as the coughing fit slowly subsided. "No. The soup's fine. It's just any food that touches the back of my throat seems to set it off."

"Try this." Bill held up a glass of water. "You're getting too dehydrated. Drink as much as you can."

Frank nodded, and took a sip. It seemed to go down okay. He took another.

"I think I'm going to lie back down," he said, handing the glass over weakly.

"Want some company?"

"I don't want to get you sick, too."

"I don't mind," said Bill. "I'm tired of choppin' wood all day, anyway. Could use a quick nap." He lowered himself next to Frank on the bed.

Frank turned on his side and snuggled up next to Bill as the other man pulled the blanket over him.

"Maybe we can just stay in bed all winter," he said dreamily. "You, me, a couple of cans of soup. We could make it."

Bill chuckled lightly at his comment. "That sounds nice."

"Really nice," Frank agreed, drifting quickly back to sleep.

"Let's get you better first," Bill said softly.

Frank said something into his pillow that was too mumbled to decipher.

Bill placed his palm on Frank's forehead again.

"Get some rest," he said to the man beside him. "I'll be here when you wake up."


	9. Chapter 9

9.

The late-August sky was filled with streaks of yellow and orange from the setting sun. Crickets chirped happily in the overgrown grass that surrounded the main street of Lincoln, Massachusetts. A soft breeze ruffled the tops of the grass, revealing the momentary glare of a pair of lenses before they disappeared back into the shadow.

"They're across the street, next to the grey pickup." Bill said quietly as he lowered the binoculars. "Take a look."

"I see'em," said Frank. He squinted into the eyepiece.

Two men huddled around the old pickup truck. Their clothes were dirty, taking on the unwashed appearance of weeks of travel. The older man looked to be somewhere in his seventies, with short, snow-white hair and a long, ugly scar that ran across the right side of his neck. He was clearly in pain, but kept his voice low as he talked, making it hard to make out their conversation. The other man was younger, in his late forties or early fifties. He frowned deeply as he examined the older man's leg.

"You think it was them this morning?" Frank whispered.

"Hard to say," said Bill. "The nail bomb went off on the other side of town. Could've been an infected."

"They don't look like military," Frank commented. "Fireflies?"

"It doesn't fit. What would Fireflies be doing in Lincoln?"

The younger man pulled out a supply bag from his backpack and went to work cleaning his companion's wound. It was bad. Even from a distance, a large amount of blood was visible and soaking through the meager bandages.

He shook his head to a comment that Frank and Bill couldn't hear, and replied with an answer that the other man clearly disagreed with. It seemed as if he was about to argue back, but settled instead on taping the bandages. When it was finished, he handed over a crudely shaped walking stick. The older man hopped up on one foot. He grunted in pain as soon as the wounded leg contacted the ground, but held on for a couple more seconds before letting the other man help him to the ground.

. . .

Frank looked back at Bill.

"No," Bill whispered with intensity. "No way. Don't tell me you're even thinking about it. We don't know who these people are."

"They need help," said Frank, keeping his voice equally quiet.

"They look pretty damn capable to me."

"Bill, these guys look exhausted. They've obviously been on the road—for who knows how long. They're practically starving. That leg is going to get infected without antibiotics."

Bill peered into the binoculars. The younger man was looking through his backpack.

"The guy with the wounded leg has a 44 Magnum on his side and another handgun hiding beneath his shirt on his back. The other guy is wearin' two semi-autos in plain sight, and has an M16 that never leaves his side. They might look harmless, but they're packing like they're professional hitmen. Either way, I ain't gonna put both our lives at risk by sittin' around and finding out."

They both turned at the sound of a loud thud across the street. The man searching the backpack had thrown it against the truck in frustration. He ran a hand through a head of dark hair that was peppered with grey, and sat down next to the older man.

"There's nothing we can use," he said, this time loud enough for Bill and Frank to hear. "We need to see if there are any supplies in this town."

The older man shook his head. "There're traps all over the goddamn place. It's too dangerous."

"I could sneak in and—"

"And what? End up shot? We don't know how many of them there are."

"Sully, you can barely stand on that leg. The last piece of shrapnel I took out was almost to the bone." The worry was clear in his voice. "You need antibiotics and clean wound dressings. And I'm sure some damn painkillers wouldn't hurt, either."

Frank looked to Bill, who motioned for him to remain still. The two strangers were facing directly toward the patch of tall grass they crouched behind.

"Do I look like I turned into some kind of weakling overnight? The leg is fine. I don't need any painkillers."

The younger man sighed deeply. "All these years of missing Friday night poker and you've lost your poker face, old man. Good to know you're not getting any less stubborn, though."

The older man's laughter quickly turned into a grimace at the disruption of his leg. He looked at the improvised wound dressing that was slowly soaking through with blood.

"I'm sorry, kid. I've been slowing you down for a while now."

The younger man stopped what he was doing to stare directly into his partner's eyes.

"You're not giving up on me."

The older man remained silent.

"It's like you said. We've got nowhere to go and all the time in the world to do it." The younger man lowered his head and paused. "If you give up now, then you're killing us both. I can't…you can't leave me to do this by myself."

The older man sighed. "You can't think like that, kid. What happened to her wasn't your fault, and you can't keep on blaming yourself. You're gonna—"

"I'm gonna make a splint for that leg," the younger man said, cutting him off. "And we're going to head for the next town tomorrow." He stood to dust himself off. "Call out if you need anything."

. . .

Bill motioned for Frank to follow him as he retreated from their hiding spot.

"I know you want to help them. It's the right thing to do. But like I said, we don't know who they are or what they're capable of. We give them a place to sleep—they could murder us in the middle of the night and live on our supplies for a year. If it came down to it, between them and us, don't think for a second they'd hesitate to kill the both of us."

Frank considered his words. Bill was right. They didn't know the two men, and there was a real chance any encounter could end up backfiring on them. But something didn't sit right with him.

"What's changed?" he finally asked.

"What do you mean?"

"The first night you found me…you didn't know who I was. I was a stranger that needed your help, like these two. What's changed between then and now?"

Bill weighted the question in his mind, before staring into Frank's eyes.

"I didn't have anything to lose then, but I sure as hell do now."


	10. Chapter 10

**mgowriter's note**: Thank you to all who have taken the time to read this story! In writing it, I really enjoyed exploring Bill and Frank's relationship, and a life that could've been.

* * *

10.

I was dead the first time you saw me. If the infected didn't get me, I would've frozen to death that night. You saved me and gave me a place to sleep. Because of that, I'll always owe you my life.

I never told you this, but I fell in love with you the next morning. You're not my type. I would've never dated you before or even after the infection. But when you stuck your neck out and said I could stay that morning, I saw a side of you that nobody else gets to see, and like a fucking middle school teenaged girl, I fell completely and totally in love.

I was so fucking nervous that first night we kissed. We drank the entire bottle of scotch and I wanted to throw up and rip off your clothes at the same time. I finally got up the courage to go to your room, and when I looked down at you with the moon and the stars shining through the window, you were the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. Reading that last sentence is going to embarrass you, so forget I wrote it. But I still slept better that night than any other since the world started going to shit.

We hardly ever fought, but when we did it was about one thing. I wanted to know what was out there, and you didn't. You wanted to protect us from the rest of the world. Case in point: the military truck that crashed into the school. God, what a fucking sore subject that's been. Remember that night with the huge thunderstorm a couple of springs ago? I never told you the whole story, but I got _this_ close to turning into dinner for a bunch of clickers. That scared the shit out of me, and I vowed to stay away from the school, until now.

I see your point in wanting to stay in Lincoln. We've made it safe for ourselves. We have enough to eat, a roof over our heads, and firewood to keep us warm. When you go to Boston every month, I worry my head off about all the horrible things that could happen to you on the road. That time when Tess came down to trade for explosives…it revealed the quarantine zone had its problems, too, but goddammit Bill, how can you be okay with living like this for the rest of your life?

You know what I find the most infuriating about you? The fact that no matter how hard we fight or how long we're mad at each other, you always find a way to make it better, and in the process make me love you more. The church…was the best thing anyone's ever done for me. I know you didn't want to move. Thinking about it now, it was probably a really bad idea. All those windows, the open space…probably the easiest area to get overtaken if a horde of infected made its way inside. But when we sat out there the first night and watched that perfect sunset, I really thought that this was it. I could stay here with you and be happy. And when you took care of me in that bedroom every time I was sick…pretty much made it impossible not to love you more.

In the end, there's one thing that I don't think I'll ever understand. When those two men turned up on the edge of town, they were exhausted and looked about ready to give up. I know they had guns, but everybody has guns. They weren't military, and they weren't Fireflies. They were regular people, like you and me, who needed help. I think you would've helped them if I wasn't there. You were thinking about protecting me, and I love you for that, but we can't live in a world where it's every man for himself. What kind of world is that? I have to believe there's something better out there, small communities maybe, rebuilding civilization in some way. I can't live every day just to survive. There has to be something else. Otherwise, what's the point?

That's why I've decided to go to the school, to get the battery out of the truck. I'm going to rig a car and find a place where we can live a normal life again. It's out there. I know it. And when I do, I'm coming back for you. It's also why I can't give you this letter. Because you'll come after me, and if it's as dangerous as I think, then I might not even make it out of town. Better me dead than the both of us. I'm just living on borrowed time anyway.

If you ever find me turned, put a bullet straight between my eyes. If you find me dead, forget me and move on. Find something to live for.

Goodbye, Bill. I love you and always will.

. . .

Frank set the pen down with shaking hands. He stared at the letter for a long time, even though the decision had been made before he wrote it. Finally, he took out a match, struck it against the side of the box, and watched the small white ball at the opposite end burst into flame.

The letter caught on fire quickly. Its edges curled away from the flame and turned into ash. Frank dropped what was left of the paper, stomping out the last of the embers with his foot. He surveyed the room he shared with Bill, hoisted the heavy backpack onto his shoulders, and walked past the stained glass windows of the church for the last time.


End file.
